My heritage doesn’t lie within the stitches of a treasonous flag

If my heritage must lie in a stitch, it is the ones in my Mamaw’s quilt

Her fingers continuing to thread needles

As the World burns around her

My God doesn’t sit in the laps of capitalists, my God sits in the streets

With the sinners and drunks that you ostracize

Religion is not the instrument

That you will pander to me with

My Freedom is not found in the desk drawer of a man

Who bought his way out of patriotism

My freedom is found in the minds of the people

He has gunned down

You can tell me that my ideologies are born out of hate

But I urge you to tell me

Where is the love of living and dying

With a boot on your neck